


Of Love and Scooby Snacks and Bad Guys in Monster Masks

by MissTaken4Mad



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: (Slightly), Aged-Up Character(s), Coming of Age, Corny Baddies, Early to Mid Twenties, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I Don't Do Angst Well, It Gives Me Anxiety, Slow Burn, So no worries, Yuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTaken4Mad/pseuds/MissTaken4Mad
Summary: Velma does, eventually, and at length, come to the realization that she is not, in fact, afflicted by some kind of new, hybrid, terminal illness that causes a mass of knotted tissue to build up in her chest until it literally crushes her lungs.(She isn't certain whether the reality is preferable to that outcome.)
Relationships: Daphne Blake/Fred Jones (Mentioned), Daphne Blake/Velma Dinkley
Comments: 38
Kudos: 111





	1. Prologue, or The Only Ending Velma Didn't See Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I'll put notes at the end--this is just some necessary basic info. This is based on the original Scooby Doo canon--as in, not the 'dark' or goofy reboots or the crappy live-action movies. Obviously due to an early lack of characterization, it jumps around a bit in which shows/movies it takes from, but essentially I just gathered their personalities and whatnot from things I noticed from them growing up as a 90s/early 2000s kid (for frame of reference). 
> 
> TLDR: Character personalities and the like are based on original, basic canon--not the newer (2010 and beyond) reboots or any live action stuff.
> 
> Enjoy the show! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited for the trainwreck the tenses were upon rereading >.<

It is one thing, Velma decides, to solve a mystery.

Solving a mystery is routine, formulaic. Solving a mystery is following the trail of clues to the inevitable bad guy in a mask and removing said mask only to discover that it’s just some rich guy trying to scare people away from his profits all along.

Of course, being Velma, she always knows who she will find beneath the mask before it comes time to remove it.

It does get old, after a while.

There is something to be said for ignorance there—once in a while, at least, Velma thinks it might be nice to be surprised.

Scared, of the monsters they went after.

But at the end of the day, they’re always just greedy old men in masks, and what’s to be afraid of there?

Anyway.

She’s getting off topic.

It’s one thing to solve a mystery. Run around, follow clues, set a trap, accidentally catch the bad guy when said trap inevitably fails (usually trapping Shaggy, or Scooby, or both, after which they will somehow drag the Monster of the Week into the mess), unmask some capitalist in a monster costume.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Velma is good at that. She’s good at solving puzzles, good at seeing to the man behind the mask. So good that she’d become thoroughly bored of it before graduating high school.

But, she stayed.

 _Stays_.

As for why…

Well…that’s where Velma falters.

She supposes, as bored as she is with formulaic cases and aging white guys in masks, there is something to be said for boredom. At least when one is bored, one is safe from change.

When things change...for good or for bad...someone always has to hurt.

As for Velma...

She can't decide whether she'd rather the numbness or the pain. All she can do is remember how it came to this.

* * *

“Hey, Spec-face!”

Velma’s eyes fall to the ground reflexively, small hands tightening around the large binder she's holding, like a protective shield.

“Hey!” A hand grabs her roughly by the shoulder, yanking her back and spinning her around. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, nerdlinger!”

A high-pitched tittering reaches Velma’s ears, and she feels her cheeks flush to match her hair. Several girls, decked out in ruffles and ribbons, have accompanied the boy currently holding Velma hostage, and are watching from the sidelines, giggling like it’s some kind of hilarious game show.

Velma’s eyes darken. Showing off, that’s all it is. She’s being tormented because this boy wants to impress a few brainless girls. But then, she supposes it's not their brains he's interested in, anyway.

Her internal monologue is interrupted by her frayed, well-loved binder being ripped ruthlessly from her hands. Velma watches, eyes stinging, as the large boy throws it to the ground and stomps on it, leaving footprints all over the fabric. She opens her mouth—to cry, to scream, to beg him to stop—but her words are lost in her throat, and all that comes out is a strangled sort of squeak.

She watches in horror as he reaches down and starts to unzip the binder—images of broken pencils, of torn pages, her precious work, skating away in the breeze flashed through her mind—

“Hey!”

Velma’s eyes snap up, laser-focused on the owner of the new voice. Something in her heart sinks when she takes in the sight of the newcomer—a little girl, with pretty red curls and a purple dress.

She’s prettier than the other girls—something Velma isn’t the only one to realize, judging by the suddenly soured expressions on the other girls’ faces—and Velma is certain she’s here to join in on the fun.

But then, something _happens._ Something that shapes the direction Velma's entire life leading on from here will take. Something even Velma’s eyes, quick as they are when solving puzzles or complex math equations, couldn’t have seen coming.

The new girl puts her hands on her hips, vivid green eyes sharp with anger.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Her words are directed at the hulk of a boy still grasping Velma’s shoulder (though Velma doubts he’d comprehended a word she’d said, judging by the dazed, lovestruck look in his eye).

When her question goes unanswered, the new girl huffs and, bold as any of the boys, storms over to where they’re all gathered in a big dumb cluster, stupefied by her very existence. With a strength distinctly contradictory to her appearance, this pretty newcomer yanks Velma right out of his grip.

“Leave. Her. Alone,” she snaps, jabbing a slender finger tipped in glittery, purple polish to his chest with each syllable. Somehow, despite being at least a head shorter than the boy (still noticeably taller than Velma, of course), she manages to look down on him. “You’re pathetic, picking on a girl.”

With that, the red-headed girl strides over and retrieves Velma’s binder, chest puffed to look as big as her petite figure can manage. All the while, the boy just stares at her, mouth flapping like a fish out of water, while his posse of tittering girls glares from the background, too scared to step in.

With Velma’s binder in one hand, she grabs Velma’s hand in her other and pointedly marches the two of them away to another part of the playground.

She finally slows down past the main blacktop, and once they're safely beneath the shade of a large evergreen tree, her grip on Velma’s hand loosens.

Velma, socially awkward and a just little bit afraid of this new girl who’d just waltzed (or, rather, stormed) in and stunned her biggest bully into silence, can only stare at the back of her head.

She really does have pretty hair, Velma notes. Pretty everything, really. Velma wonders what it must be like, being pretty…

Then, as if suddenly remembering what happened, the girl whirls around, and Velma flinches on instinct. But the expression the girl wears now is almost unrecognizable. Her brows are furrowed in worry and her eyes are soft, caring—almost as if Velma is facing an entirely different person than the girl who’d been ready to spit fire just a few moments before.

“Are you okay?” this enigma of a girl asks, stepping into Velma’s personal space with absolutely no hesitation. She reaches for Velma’s hand and clasps it in both of her own, pressing against her chest. Velma marvels at the heat radiating from her. “Did he hurt you?”

Stunned, Velma can only shake her head. This doesn’t seem to bother the red-haired girl one bit, however, as, with Velma’s confirmation, she breaks into the most dazzling smile Velma has ever seen.

“I’m so glad,” she says, sounding like she means it from the bottom of her heart. She finally releases Velma’s hand, only so she can reach down and retrieve the binder she had set against the tree. She presents it to Velma like a trophy, chest puffed in pride, and Velma can’t help but giggle, which caused the girl’s smile to grow somehow even brighter.

Something blooms in Velma’s chest, hot and glowing and _alive_.

“Thank you,” she says, softly, finally managing to speak as she hugged the binder to her chest.

“Is that where you keep your writing?” the girl asks. Velma blinks, then flushes. Still, she nods, and the girl claps her hands together excitedly. “That’s really cool, I’ve seen you out here writing before! I wish I could write, but,” here she sighs (rather theatrically) and holds out her hands, shrugging, “I’m no good at stuff like that.”

Velma opens her mouth to say something—to say what, she isn’t sure, because she’s only just met this girl a few minutes ago and knows nothing about her aside from the fact that she is very pretty and can apparently shame a boy twice her size into silence with only a few well-chosen words—but before she can attempt, the girl is speaking again. It is a pattern that will become familiar and comfortable—one loud, bold, animated, the other reserved, quiet, listening with a fond smile.

“Oh, I’m Daphne, by the way!” the girl exclaims, seeming to realize that she had yet to introduce herself.

“Oh, uh…,” Velma stutters, once again caught off-guard by this new girl and her utterly effortless vibrance. “I’m, um…Velma,” she manages, though her words come out directed to the ground rather than the girl before her.

Nevertheless, the girl—Daphne—lights up again, and Velma decides then and there that she will do absolutely anything to keep that smile on her face.

Daphne is so cheerful, so brave, so _everything_ that Velma is not. Velma doesn’t understand a thing about this girl, and for some reason, rather than frighten her, it makes her feel like she would follow Daphne to the ends of the earth if the latter only held out her hand and asked.

(It _should_ have scared her, really, that sureness, but even a brilliant child like Velma is still a child, in the end. And children don’t really understand just yet that there are things worse than ghosts and monsters to be afraid of; that some things don’t have to have sharp teeth or bloody weapons to be feared. That some of the scariest things in this world present themselves with a warm, gentle touch and a smile that could shame the stars.

But that…that is for later. For now…

Daphne has something that Velma is missing—something that even the brilliant Velma is too young to name right now—and by her side, for once, Velma feels like the child she is.)

* * *

About a year later, they meet Shaggy.

Shaggy is…

Well, Shaggy is exactly ‘what it says on the tin’, so to speak. He’s goofy, bumbling, and awkward—qualities that make him quite hard to dislike. Velma doesn’t actually remember exactly _how_ they met; it was like one day, it was just her and Daphne, and then the next, there's Shaggy, as if he’d been there all along.

(And of course, with Shaggy comes Scooby Doo.)

Shaggy adds something to the group that they didn’t have before, a kind of carefree energy and a sort of all-around lightheartedness to foil Velma’s logic and reason, and complement Daphne’s fiery energy and determination.

He’s not very smart—actually, Velma thinks it’s a wonder he hasn’t been held back at all, given all the angry red ink that always mars his report cards.

There _is_ something there, however—in his eyes, in his silence—that sometimes makes Velma wonder if maybe he’s secretly smarter than them all, and has just realized that life is easier when you’re dumb.

* * *

Fred comes along in middle school—a tall, handsome boy who had moved to Coolsville over the summer.

Velma knows he is going to be a part of their mismatched group almost instantly—if not for the borderline weird way his eyes light up when someone mentions the word ‘trap’ (or, god forbid, 'mystery'), then for the way that Daphne looks at him.

It’s an odd, not entirely comfortable experience, watching someone you’ve always depended on—someone strong, brave, bold—look at someone else like they hung the stars. Velma contemplates this for quite a while after they met Fred. It is certainly odd, watching bold, outgoing Daphne turn into a demure schoolgirl whenever Fred turned his attention to her.

Daphne’s still Daphne, of course. Still fiery, still bold—still the bright spot in their little patchwork group. But there’s a new side of Daphne, one that Velma’s unfamiliar with, that comes out when Fred is around.

Velma isn’t sure when it started, or why, but a strange pressure, like a hard knot, has begun to form in her chest. It’s the oddest thing, but sometimes it feels like it tightens, or grows. She first notices this one day at the ice cream shop, sitting across from Shaggy who has been stealing bites of her own abandoned ice cream. Velma can feel Daphne’s body as a warm weight pressing casually against her thigh, as the latter giggles over something or other Fred has said. That’s when the knot swells out of nowhere, filling any extra room she had in her body.

She pushes the remainder of her ice cream to a delighted Shaggy and easily smiles off Daphne’s concern with a shake of her head. Daphne’s hand—gripping Velma’s thigh now out of her concern—seems to radiate some kind of hot electricity that runs up her leg and delivers a shock straight to her chest. Velma reflexively jerks away, briefly panicking, and makes a note to have it checked at the hospital where her mother works.

In her resulting panic, she misses both the brief, poorly masked look of hurt on Daphne’s face, as well as the fact that whatever had just hit her chest has already broken up the knot entirely. Dissolved it, like fire to a tangled web.

* * *

Something shifts.

It’s not just the official formation of Mystery Inc., a rag-tag team of amateur detectives and the bane of nefarious Corporate America, although that is certainly the most _obvious_ change.

There’s something else, there, as well; something far more subtle, yet ultimately far more impactful for the group as a whole. It’s not something so simple as to be able to pinpoint exactly what it is that changes, and it doesn’t happen all at once—in fact, it happens so gradually that any one of them would be hard pressed to give an exact date. It’s more of a vignette than a single, groundbreaking scene.

But it _is_ noticeable, and the signs, at least, are distinct.

It’s in the way Daphne shows another side of herself around Fred, giggly and girlish instead of fiery and determined.

It’s in the way Velma’s eyes flicker away, to the ground, when she sees Daphne make some obvious ploy for Fred’s attention only to get overlooked entirely for the sake of some gadget or trap.

It’s in the way Shaggy’s deceptively clever eyes see Velma almost physically shrink—and in the way those same eyes automatically shift to Daphne and Fred whenever this happens.

It’s in the way that Velma starts subconsciously distancing herself, both from the group and, though an outsider wouldn’t know it, from herself—in the way she starts jumping and twitching away whenever Daphne lays a gentle hand on her arm.

It’s in the way Velma is always too busy staring at the ground to see the confused, devastated expression this never fails to leave on Daphne’s face.

Fred doesn’t change, of course—he never knew them before, after all, and the worst part is that Velma can’t even bring herself to blame him, not really. It’s enough to make her wish for the first time in a very long time—since she met Daphne, actually; Daphne, who all but physically forced her to see the good in herself when all Velma could see was bottle cap glasses and a pudgy blob of flesh in the mirror—that she weren’t so unfailingly logical. That, for once, she could just be a normal girl and just blame someone else for no reason other than to have someone to blame.

As it is…she can’t even blame _herself_ , not really. And more and more, she feels like she really, honestly would prefer it if she could.

(They never do find out what’s wrong with her chest, although her mother seems distinctly unconcerned with the prospect of terminal illness, despite the fact that it’s only grown. Rather, she _does_ seem concerned, but not, it seems, for Velma’s physical health. She looks at her daughter with a worried sort of expression as Velma begins to retreat further into herself, but never says a word; or, knowing Velma’s family, can never find the words to say.)

* * *

Velma does, eventually, and at length, come to the realization that she is not, in fact, afflicted by some kind of new, hybrid, terminal illness that causes a mass of knotted tissue to build up in her chest until it literally crushes her lungs.

Velma is not certain whether the reality is preferable to this outcome. In hindsight, she was, frankly, embarrassed for not having realized what was actually going on before. In her defense, however, the prospect of love—and the idea that it could ever happen to _her_ —was so far beyond her comprehension that it had simply never crossed even the very furthest reaches of her mind. For someone like Velma, who had so many thoughts running through her brain at all hours of the day (and night), all vying for the front spot and shouting over each other to be heard, perhaps it is forgivable that the obvious eluded her for so long.

She hopes so, anyway, because the reality is bad enough without the humiliation of having taken so long to recognize it.

The thing is, as ridiculous and unbelievable as it sounds, nobody ever _warned_ Velma that falling in love wasn’t something you _chose_ , like which outfit to wear, or deciding whether or not to be an organ donor on one’s drivers’ license. Velma had, up to this point, with a level of naivety achievable only by the very young or the very socially impaired, simply assumed that, as she had decided she wanted nothing to do with love, love would, similarly, have nothing to do with her.

* * *

It does occur to Velma after a time (of course it does, how could it not—because she’s logical, realistic, analytical-to-a-fault Velma), after she’s had some time to adjust, how well blue and purple go together. How good they look together—how effortlessly they complement each other. Neighbors on the color wheel, forever one beside the other. Never one too far from the other.

(On a somewhat unrelated note, purple and orange are almost directly opposite each other on that same color wheel.)

Velma will huff a close-lipped, self-deprecating laugh to herself, because of course. Even her beloved books and facts and logic agreed.

Purple and blue go together—aesthetically and artistically and logically. Hand in hand. Purple needs blue, after all, doesn't it.

(All orange is good for—the only business it has, she thinks, harshly—standing next to purple is a day-one lesson in Art 101 on how _not_ to color.)

* * *

In retrospect, after some thought and grounding, she supposes it is actually quite remarkable in its own right that she was able to get so far in life stoutly believing that love worked like choosing an option in a questionnaire.

As it is, Velma is nineteen when she realizes that she is in love with Daphne—that she _has been in love_ with Daphne since the day Daphne first smiled at her—and is pushing twenty-four, with Fraphne (Shaggy’s invention) having long since imploded in on itself (like Shaggy had predicted years ago), before she actually _does_ anything about it.

And even then, it isn’t so much Velma actually _doing_ anything about it as much as it is Daphne finally having enough of being pushed away and taking matters into her own hands.

(But it was always going to be like that in the end, wasn’t it?

That’s the way it’s always been—Daphne leading Velma gently but surely by the hand, Velma happily following after—and as much as absolutely everything has changed, there are still some rare few things in this world that will always stay the same.)

But.

That won’t happen just yet.

They (all of them—Velma, Daphne, Fred, Shaggy, even Scooby-Doo) have a ways to go—and a ways to grow—before they get there.

It’s an odd thing, but life has a way of jumping upon people all at once. Change more often happens overnight than over the course of long years.

That being said, this is exactly what is going to happen to Velma, between the day she turns twenty-three and the day she turns twenty-four.

(In fact, perhaps out of due respect for Velma’s own strict adherence to rules and order, it _does_ start just _exactly_ then—on her twenty-third birthday, at the modest party (‘modest’ only because Daphne had grudgingly agreed to keep it small out of respect to the birthday girl, and ‘party’ only because Velma has long-since stopped trying to fight the fact that she never can say no to Daphne) her friends had thrown for her.


	2. Twenty-Three (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, I know >.<
> 
> I'm so sorry for the wait, and thank you to everyone who reviewed for your encouraging words! I had kind of a lot going on for a bit there, on top of my muse being difficult. But I've finally got the first chapter so that I'm okay with posting it--to be honest it's been sitting gathering dust for a while because I couldn't decide how I wanted the story to proceed, and I had some parts I had to decide how to use. But here's Chapter One, finally!

If one were to ask a complete stranger to boil Velma Dinkley down to three traits, knowing only her outward appearance and the very basics of her personality, said list might go something like the following:

  1. Intelligent, possibly bordering on genius.
  2. Possibly as an extension of the former, poor at socializing.
  3. Taking the previous conclusions into account, one might come to the following conclusion: DOES NOT DO PARTIES.



Well. Perhaps not taken out of context, but the validity remains.

So why, that same stranger might ask, was Velma Dinkley currently occupying her time doing her level best to become one with the wallpaper at her own birthday party when she would clearly rather be anywhere else?

That was, of course, the problem with strangers, Velma mused to herself, ignoring the faint, constant hum of anxiety twitching beneath her skin. Ignoring it had become second nature to her, being so consistently afflicted by the anxious thrumming whenever she was caught in the midst of any gathering of people even remotely resembling a crowd. She tucked herself away the best she could and the rest, she ignored. Eventually it had gotten to the point where she didn’t even realize it was there until it stopped.

Velma’s eyes scanned the scene before her almost lazily, though they never quite stopped analyzing or working. After a few moments of watching the beginnings (and middle) of _yet another_ potential threesome, she grimaced. It was times like these that made her miss Ben Ravencroft.

Give her psychotic, potentially homicidal writers with a thing for witchcraft any day—Velma drew the line packs of horny twenty-somethings and an open bar.

Though, really, she really ought to commend herself on having managed to wheedle the party down to _this_ size, considering where Daphne had started with her whole grand ‘Velma’s Surprise Party’ plan (the ‘surprise’ aspect of the plan existing in name only, naturally, as Shaggy had immediately informed Velma of Daphne’s original plan to book an entire hotel for the event). Considering where the party had started, Velma supposed a private party (limited to no more than twenty people, at Velma’s insistence) at the local high-end club was probably more than a fair compromise.

Still, the fact remained that _any_ sort of party was automatically shortlisted for the last place on Earth one might find Velma Dinkley and her trademark orange, scoop-neck sweater on a free night.

(For the record, a rave, music festival, or a mandatory office retreat were all equally valid options—really anything involving a lot of people, noise, and/or artificial pleasantries.)

So the question remained: _why_ was Velma here, surrounded by a modestly-sized group of virtual strangers and electro-dance music, on her _birthday_ , when she would rather be cuddled up under her favorite comforter rereading Dickens?

“Hey, Velms!”

Velma glanced up, ignoring the jarring thud her heart gave against her chest, as the answer to that very question came bouncing over to her, directly _through_ her personal bubble and engulfing her in a gigantic hug without a moment’s hesitation.

Velma’s body tensed. She couldn’t help it—it was a reflex she’d been honing since they were teenagers. She glanced to the side, pretending she didn’t see the look of pure hurt written across Daphne’s features, which was difficult, because it was written as plainly as if someone had scrawled it across her face in black sharpie. Daphne had never been any good at hiding her emotions; it was one of the many things that had drawn Velma so irresistibly to her since day one.

These days, it was also one of her biggest sources of guilt.

To say Daphne Blake was a tactile person would be a gross understatement. This was one of the first things Velma had ever learned about her would-be best friend, and, despite being together for over a decade now, she had never quite gotten used to it. While Velma had certainly never been _mistreated_ by her family, she hadn’t grown up in a particularly…affectionate environment. Hugs were for tragedies and…well, that was about it, actually. And forget about kisses on the forehead or cheek.

So when little Daphne Blake had barreled her way into Velma’s life, all open arms and casual contact and kisses to spare, it had been a bit of a culture shock, to say the least—but one that Velma always treasured and looked forward to.

Then things had started to change. Daphne’s affection started to have a different meaning—or, rather, Velma now had the words to put to the feelings, albeit belatedly—and as a result, it became something Velma tried her best to avoid, if only to avoid feeling as if she were taking advantage of Daphne’s blissful ignorance.

First by pulling away before a hug went on too long, then ‘accidentally’ moving just out of the way of an affectionate kiss to her cheek…she _knew_ it hurt Daphne. She _knew_ it confused her. Of _course_ she did. But Velma couldn’t handle the longing that came after, not when the next minute Daphne was clinging to Fred. Eventually Velma did manage to fully distance herself, but the odd thing, the thing she hadn’t expected, was that Daphne had never stopped trying. There was determination in her hugs—a strength in her embrace that told Velma that Daphne knew she was going to try to pull away and was actively trying to keep her close. As difficult as it was for Velma to handle her feelings, a part of her, larger than she would care to admit, was relieved that Daphne never gave up.

She…didn’t know what she’d do if she did.

Out of the corner of her eye, Velma watched Daphne pull herself together, jerking her head slightly as if to shake herself out of it and put on a happy face. _As always_.

But lately…there was a new emotion mixing in with the hurt, one that worried Velma. She wasn’t sure if she’d call it annoyance, or defiance…maybe even anger? Velma had never been good with emotions. What she _did_ know—what was crystal clear even to Scooby-Doo, who was treading lightly around the two when they were in close quarters these days—was that Daphne was getting fed up with going along with Velma’s ‘pretend nothing is wrong’ act.

“Are you having fun?”

Velma blinked, jerked from her introspection by a pair of jade-green eyes suddenly engulfing nearly her entire field of vision. Daphne was leaning down to meet Velma’s gaze, a painfully hopeful look written across her (achingly) pretty features. She was so close now that her fiery red hair dusted the front of Velma’s trademark sweater. If Velma were at all poetically inclined, she might have taken some dry amusement from the blatant metaphoric overtures—Daphne’s flaming red hair on her chest, like the physical manifestation of the fire she lit inside her.

Or something. For all her brains, Velma had never taken to poetry—not even the classics. All the rose-colored comparisons and overt pining made her cringe, rather than swoon, as she supposed was its original purpose.

“Um,” replied Velma, belatedly.

_Intelligent, Velma. That’s showing off that Einsteinian IQ of yours._

Daphne raised one eyebrow, eyes sparking with amusement. “Um?” she prodded, lips parting in the beginnings of a teasing grin.

Velma rolled her eyes. “You know me and parties, Daph,” she said, dryly. “And how those two words should never be used in the same sentence.”

Daphne rolled her eyes in turn. “Yes, and that’s why I took charge of the party planning—”

“You _always_ take charge of party planning—”

“Come _on_ Velms, have some _fun_ for once!” Daphne whined, plowing right past Velma’s dry interruption as she surged forward and clasped both of Velma’s hands in her own. There was that twitch, like a muscle reflex—that instinctive urge to pull away—but Daphne was prepared this time, her grip becoming vice-like at the slightest resistance. Velma had to fight back a grimace; when had Danger-Prone Daphne become this strong? Or maybe Velma was just weak…? She supposed there was a downside to spending all her time with just her thoughts and her books for company…

Velma fixed Daphne with a serious look. “I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m _Velma_ , remember? I don’t do ‘fun’.”

Daphne rolled her eyes again in response to Velma’s self-deprecating sarcasm, taking her about as seriously as ever. Releasing one of her hands only to renew her grip on the other, she began to pull Velma bodily through the crowd. “It’s your birthday, Velms,” Daphne was saying. “This is _your_ party. Have some _fun_ ,” here she emphasized the word while giving Velma a stern look, “and live a little! Get drunk! Kiss some pretty boys…or some pretty _girls_?”

Velma raised an eyebrow as Daphne spun around to face her again. They had somehow managed to reach the bar through the crowd—Velma was a little surprised she hadn’t dissolved into a panic attack, but then, Daphne had always been the natural cure to her social anxiety. “Girls?” Velma questioned, tone dry as ever. She had separated herself so completely from any delusion that someone like Daphne would ever so much as look at someone like her in a romantic sense that even normally dangerous waters like this were just another conversation topic. “Really, Daph?”

Daphne frowned. “What?” she asked, making a gesture to the bartender and subsequently pressing a shot of something distinctly _purple_ into Velma’s hand. Velma raised a brow at the poisonous-looking concoction, but said nothing, waiting for Daphne to continue. “There’s nothing wrong with girls kissing girls.”

Velma couldn’t help the slight warmth she felt at Daphne’s unwavering response, though she supposed she hadn’t expected anything else. It was never the issue, that Daphne might think Velma disgusting, or immoral—it wasn’t who she was. Daphne was the kind of person who loved people regardless of silly things like orientation. And those she loved, she loved _fiercely._ It was another aspect of her personality that Velma had fallen in love with, and potentially the most dangerous. She couldn’t imagine much of anything harder than falling for someone who loved so openly, so completely…and yet never quite enough.

“I know,” Velma replied, swirling the violently purple liquid in the glass. It was a very _Daphne_ thing to order, she decided. “It’s just a little random, I guess.”

Daphne shrugged. “Well, I’ve never seen you interested in much of _anyone_ who’s not some great mind of history,” she said. “I mean, not that you have to be—if you’re just, you know, not into _anybody_ , that’s fine too, just…”

She pursed her lips. It was a habit she’d had for as far back as Velma could remember, when she couldn’t find the right words. Velma was, not for the first time, grateful for her saint-like willpower. Who knew what that look would do to her if she were as horny as the rest of the club appeared to be? Not to say Velma wasn’t _tempted_ , but…hormones were pushed so far into the background by the resounding chorus of, “ _OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE, NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN,”_ that Velma barely felt them at all.

Finally, Daphne seemed to find her words. “I just hope you’ll tell me, if you do?”

It was a statement, phrased like a question and touched by a hint of insecurity that squeezed Velma’s heart like a vice. She sighed.

“Of course I will, Daph,” she said, mustering up her best, most sincere-looking smile, trying not to focus on how constipated she probably looked right now.

Regardless, it seemed to satisfy Daphne, because she broke into a dazzling smile at Velma’s reassurance. Before she had time to prepare, Daphne had thrown her arms around her again, squeezing tightly, almost as if she were afraid Velma would try to slip away otherwise. Another wave of guilt crashed to the surface as Velma realized that was probably exactly what had brought on such a tight hug, but… What else was she supposed to do to keep her feet on the ground and her head out of the clouds when every time Daphne hugged her, Velma felt like her heart might burst from the sensation, only to be consumed whole by the longing, cloying aching it left behind?

After a moment that felt both agonizingly slow and breathtakingly fast, Daphne released Velma and the latter found herself falling back onto a barstool, nearly gasping for the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Daphne was already off to some other corner of the club, either to check that everyone was well supplied or to do something…else that Velma was _not_ going to think about.

To aid in said not-thinking, Velma unthinkingly downed the purple shot all at once, recoiling almost immediately. The candy-sweet taste disguised the hardness of the drink until it hit her all at once as it seared down back of her throat like a knife. For a moment, right as she swallowed, Velma swore she _actually_ saw stars.

Coughing, she dropped the glass back onto the bar—where it was promptly refilled by the impeccably dressed bartender—and held her head for several long seconds until the room stopped swimming. The noise of the club was oddly muted in the wake of the… _whatever_ it was she’d just slammed, as if she were hearing it from underwater. Honestly, if it had been absolutely anyone else who’d given it to her, Velma would be calling poison control right now, or possibly 911. But she trusted Daphne whole-heartedly and absolutely, so instead of panicking, she focused on the taste (and sensation) of the shot.

Sweet like cotton candy, with a vicious bite that left her reeling in its wake and not quite sure which way was up and which was down.

It was…terrifyingly similar to the feeling of loving Daphne Blake.

Or at least, that’s what Velma would have thought, _if_ she were poetically inclined in the slightest.

Luckily, Velma was no poet.


	3. Twenty-Three (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the delay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the delay. I've had issues with my muse for years now, but to be honest the biggest issue right now is probably my stress and anxiety over Covid-19 and a slew of other stuff revolving around that and the present state of the country (America). (That state being a steaming pile of shit.) HOWEVER. I do still intend to continue with this story, which is why I'm now posting the next chapter! Yaaaaay! 
> 
> ANYWAY. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story despite everything--I promise I'll try to do better from now on! I hope you continue to enjoy this fanfic!!

What Velma _was_ , however, was _drunk._

Drunk, sloshed, faded…

Or at least buzzed enough for her mental faculties to be significantly impaired, which was as good as for someone who relied so heavily on said faculties in every aspect of her life.

The party was finally beginning to die down, or maybe it was Velma’s anxiety that was being influenced by the alcohol in her system. Whatever the case, she was feeling significantly more relaxed now. She’d have to find out what was in that purple stuff…although on second thought, thinking back to the unnatural shimmer, like oil on water…maybe it was best she didn’t know, and just enjoyed the feeling for what it was. It was rare for her to feel so utterly carefree—the last thing she wanted to do was ‘Velma’ it up by thinking on it too deeply.

“Guess what time it is~?!”

Velma’s head jerked up, only for her to cringe at the sudden dizziness the movement brought with it. The party really had thinned out, she saw—aside from a few stragglers too caught up in each other to notice what was going on around them, it was just the old gang and a few of their closer friends. Daphne was the one who had spoken up (of course)—she was sashaying over with a dangerous look in her eyes, brandishing a bottle of schnapps like it was fine wine.

“Dinner time?” asked Shaggy, his voice cracking more than usual beneath the layers of alcohol. He was hunched over the bar, arms pulled over his head like a shield. Velma watched Fred walk over and give him a couple firm slaps on the back—hard enough to make the ever-scrawny Shaggy buckle a little in his seat—before pulling him unceremoniously to his feet.

“No~,” Daphne hummed, flouncing over to Velma and flinging an arm over her shoulders, pulling her dangerously close to her chest. Velma’s heart thumped into high gear and she felt her face grow even hotter than it had been from the alcohol. Her brain screamed at her to pull away, but in her semi-drunken state, even her towering willpower was waning. She veritably curled into the warmth of Daphne’s body, and Daphne, encouraged by the rare show of affection, squeezed Velma closer in response. Delicious electricity raced through Velma’s veins as if they’d been replaced by live wires, and then back to her chest with all the impact of a defibrillator. “It’s time for the _real_ party to begin!”

With that, she began pulling Velma toward the door, much like she’d pulled her through the crowd earlier. As they pushed through the heavy glass doors, the cold air briefly stole Velma’s breath, and for a split second, she had a moment of clarity.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a warning siren was going off—what was left of her finely tuned Daphne-survival instincts. This is why it was dangerous to give in; it would be so easy to get addicted to this, and then what would she do…? But the alcohol muted the siren until it was nothing but dull, vaguely annoying background noise, and the moment of clarity passed as quickly as it had come on.

“Another party?” Velma mumbled. Talking felt like a burden. “But…that was just…we had…”

“That was just for _appearances_!” Daphne declared, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. The tips of her ears were tinged slightly pink, but otherwise she showed no outward signs of drunkenness. Daphne could hold her liquor better than any of them. Even dragging Velma along by the shoulders, her gait was far more surefooted than Freddy’s stumbling attempt to drag Shaggy along with him. “The real party starts on the boat!”

_“Boat_?!”

Even in her distinctly addled state, Velma’s eyes bugged in shock at Daphne’s offhanded comment.

“Our family yacht!” Daphne explained, as if that answered Velma’s unasked question. “Daddy said we could use it for the night, and I thought it would be great if it was just the gang out on the lake!”

Velma felt her muscles tense for what must have been the hundredth time that night alone. All this stress couldn’t be good for her health—but then again, if that were true, her health was shot already, so why stop now?

The only thing more terrifying than a room full of loud, drunk, hormonal teenagers, was a quiet yacht on a silent lake with nothing to act as a buffer between herself and Daphne.

_Where are you, Ben???_

Velma’s desperate plea to the sky was wholly ignored, naturally. Hell, if Ben Ravencroft _was_ here, he’d probably be more focused on getting his revenge than helping Velma with her pathetically convoluted nonexistent love life.

Velma entertained herself for a moment with that particular scenario. She wondered if an actual curse would be preferable to her current situation. She supposed it depended on the curse, really. She would certainly have to think twice about anything involving ‘water sports’, that was for sure. _That_ was _one_ innocent Google search that had turned into _quite_ the rabbit hole…

“—lms? Velma!!”

Velma gave a start, yanked from her quickly spiraling thoughts—and existential musings about whether there truly were things in this world she was better off not knowing—by a pair of very curious, very green eyes very close to her own for the second time that night.

She jerked back, instinctively, with enough force to send her reeling backward toward the ground with the aid of her inebriated state. Rather than cold, hard concrete and a lump to the back of the head, however, she was jerked to a stop before she hit the ground by a hand grabbing her wrist. Like a puppy that’s just gotten into the trash (or like Scooby-Doo when he manages to get his paws on an entire box of Scooby Snax), Velma ducked her head adnd steadfastly avoided Daphne’s hurt gaze as the latter pulled her to her feet.

“Um…startled me,” she mumbled, flushing. Even out of the corner of her eye, Velma could see that the hurt look didn’t fade this time—in fact, it became more pronounced, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looked as though Daphne might actually _say_ something this time. But then she seemed to catch herself, and, after assuring herself that Velma wasn’t about to topple over, turned back to the boys to join in their animated discussion.

Right beside the group and yet somehow a world apart, Velma drifted along like a ghost, lost in her thoughts and unable (or uncaring) to attempt to pull herself back out. Freddie and Shaggy seemed content to follow Daphne’s lead, no doubt attributing Velma’s odd behavior to inebriation, but at down at waist-height, Scooby-Doo looked on pensively with that mixture of concern and wary anticipation that only animals can achieve.

* * *

The multicolored lights strung around the Blake family yacht—evidence concrete of Daphne’s premeditated double-whammy birthday attack—swum before Velma’s eyes, making the entire craft seem to glow. The overall effect was mildly ethereal, as if, instead of being on a boat, she was lost in a fairy forest late at night. Even things that grounded her—the cold metal of the yacht walls, or the polished wood of the deck—only made her feel as though she were in a dream instead.

The dreamy atmosphere was a welcome break from Velma’s usual whirring thoughts. She supposed this was the danger of alcohol—she could easily get used to this, she thought, watching the boys launch into a relaxed game of pool. There was a warm feeling pooling in the pit of her stomach; some sort of nostalgia for simpler times, when all that would have mattered was the cold, wet wood beneath her and the fuzzy lights above. Even Fred and Shaggy’s banter was more like a soothing lullaby than aimless chatter.

_This_ was Velma’s family.

Shaggy, Fred, Daphne—even Scooby-Doo.

Sober, this thought was what grounded her if she dared to fantasize about what could be. Growing up, her house had always felt more like a science lab, cold, impersonal and painstakingly professional. Home, to Velma, was the aging Mystery Machine—the carefree conversation between mysteries, the easy, comforting affection.

Well. Until that affection had started to mean something more than comfort.

And that was just exactly it, wasn’t it? How _could_ Velma jeopardize her home—her _everything_ —for the sake of her feelings? And say she did anyway—someone like Daphne would never look twice at someone like Velma. The thought of confessing her feelings had never crossed even the furthest reaches of Velma’s logical, unfailingly analytical mind. It would be bad enough to jeopardize their friendship—and the entire group, if Fraphne was still a thing in any extent—if she thought she had a genuine chance. But to Velma, ever the logician, jeopardizing everything she held dear for the sake of taking a chance on something that was, as much as anything in this world could be, _impossible_ , was absolutely incomprehensible.

And so she didn’t.

But now…

Perhaps it was the lights that were to blame. Feeling as though one were lost in a real life Wonderland, she supposed vaguely, could probably easily have the effect of making one feel as though reality and impossibility were reversed. Maybe it was that damnable electric purple drink Daphne had given her. It was, in all likelihood, to some extent at least, both.

Whatever it was, the resulting effect was that Velma felt as if she were floating through the air, even as her toes brushed the cold, wet deck of the Blake Yacht (she never had been very tall). There were things she ought to be worried about. She could feel them, clambering at the back of her mind. But it was as if a thick glass wall had been erected between those worries and her conscious mind. They couldn’t reach her, no matter how loudly they yelled, or how furiously they scratched at the glass; and, conversely, try as Velma might to _remember_ what it was that was tugging at the back of her mind, the answers remained just out of reach.

Despite the relative chaos that implied, compared to Velma’s usual state of mind, she felt positively tranquil.

Vaguely, Velma registered movement immediately to her left, just before she felt her body being unceremoniously jostled to allow room for a second body to join her in the oversized wooden deck chair. A pair of legs maneuvered seamlessly beneath her own, and a significantly longer body than Velma’s own squeezed in behind her on the chair. If there had been even the faintest shadow of a doubt about her seatmate’s identity in her addled mind, a thick sheet of fiery red hair, carrying the familiar scent of citrus, fell over her chest, and a strong, slender arm curled around her torso.

"Hey there, Birthday Girl,” Daphne said, voice soft, private and full of something that made Velma’s _heart_ hurt.

She was struck temporarily dumb by the sheer _heat_ of the moment. Not in the metaphorical, often sexual sense, as commonly referenced in tawdry romance novels, but the actual, _physical heat_ of Daphne’s bikini-clad body engulfing Velma’s own. Even in Velma’s alcohol-induced dream-state, she was still enough herself that she found herself musing about whether this was the difference between skin-to-skin contact as opposed to contact through fabric. Naturally, Velma hadn’t had much experience with even the latter, and it struck her in that moment that she had never actually _had_ skin-to-skin contact with another person before now, aside from a few passing moments at the pool.

"Hello, anyone home in there?”

A gentle pressure at her temple brought Velma back to the present. She blinked owlishly at Daphne, who was watching her with that adoring expression that always made Velma’s heart clench painfully behind her ribs. Normally she would have cursed Daphne’s ridiculously expressive features, but Drunk Velma, apparently, functioned much more on instinct than Sober Velma. Too overcome with the emotions the expression invoked, and too wasted to school her reaction, Velma simply fell back against Daphne, an odd noise escaping her lips, like a cross between a coo and a purr.

Velma felt Daphne’s affectionate laughter rather than heard it, and very nearly preened when long, slender fingers (she’d always been jealous of Daphne’s pretty, pretty fingers) carded through her hair, applying gentle pressure to her scalp with each stroke.

Briefly, Velma wondered whether this was how Daphne would behave every day—with the same level of affection—if Velma allowed her to get close enough to do so when painfully hindered by sobriety.

_Probably_ , she thought, mildly. Daphne was extraordinary in that regard—always had been. With Velma, at least.

It was never quite the same with the guys. Though Velma assumed that had _something_ to do with the omnipresent underlying expectations between male and female friends. She would have liked to think they, as a group, were better than that, but…

_Well_ , Velma mused, mindlessly accepting a sip from Daphne’s enthusiastically proffered wine cooler (and only lingering for a moment on the juvenile thought that this could be considered an indirect kiss), _she would have liked to think_ she _was better than that, too, wouldn’t she._

A cool breeze caused the lights to shift and tinkle ever so slightly, like fragile, neon bells. The stark contrast between the coolness of the air and the heat of Daphne’s embrace momentarily brought Velma back to reality, affording her a temporary respite from inebriated half-stupor.

“I’m here,” she murmured, belatedly, as her brain caught up with her mouth and reminded her that Daphne had asked her something. “Kind of.”

The vibrations returned, this time as full-blown laughter that jostled Velma, reminding her of their close proximity. “Kind of?”

“Mm.”

Velma rarely felt the express _need_ to talk so much as the _pressure_ to do so—inebriated and effortlessly content, at this particular moment, she felt neither.

It was an altogether incredibly freeing sensation.

Freedom. It wasn’t a feeling Velma experienced often. Not entirely, at least. As tragically cliché as it sounded, even in her own head, Velma was always imprisoned, to some extent, by her own mind and her own stubborn feelings. In that sense, she supposed, she was lucky she _was_ a quiet drunk. God knew what she’d say in this particular instance otherwise.

The night was beginning to grow darker. Or maybe it was Velma’s eyelids beginning to give in to the siren’s song of sleep.

_Ha. Siren’s song of sleep._

Maybe Velma should try being a poet, after all.

Faintly, mutedly, as though Velma were sinking into the ocean rather than into slumber, she heard Daphne say something.

She _thought_ she heard Daphne say something.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours, Velms?”

Something wet. Maybe.

But. They were on a boat. Boats…were wet, Velma remembered, vaguely. Or maybe...around wet.

“Why do you keep pulling away from me?”

Warm. Was ocean water warm? Maybe…

Velma felt the wetness slide down her cheek.

Was she crying? She didn’t remember feeling sad…

“Did I do something wrong?”

Daphne’s voice broke, distorted by the distance. Probably. Something was thumping in Velma’s ears, and the noise around her was swiftly growing fainter, as if she had somehow sunk to the very bottom of the ocean.

* * *

Silence, save for the insistent keening of the wind.

She was so, so tired. But something was nagging at her, itching at her mind, telling her to wake up. Look around.

Velma tried to ignore the incessant, restless tingle.

She was _so_ tired.

But, after a time, curiosity got the better of her—as it always did, eventually—and Velma forced her eyes open, despite feeling as though her eyelids had been replaced by lead implants.

Shaggy and Freddie had evidently finished their pool game in the time she’d been absent, and were now sitting down to tea with Scooby-Doo, who drank from a teacup with his pinky claw raised, as one does. On closer inspection, Velma realized that it was actually only half a teacup, although the liquid stayed in place, like some sort of brown, semi-transparent jelly. She thought she’d seen that kind of cup somewhere before—she had to remember to ask Scooby where he’d gotten it.

Velma’s hand slipped, landing on cold grass. It was just slightly wet, as though it had been sprinkled with morning dew, although the star-strewn sky above suggested it was closer to midnight than morning.

Something rustled, and Velma shifted, pausing as her stomach flipped, head spinning, filling her with an odd confusion, as if she didn’t quite fit properly into her own body. When she was able to move again, she turned and saw Daphne to her left, wearing a frilly, Victorian-era dress spangled with hearts.

Velma thought the dress was incredibly pretty—though she doubted it would look so nice on herself—but Daphne didn’t seem to agree. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes falling heavily over her eyes and obscuring the piercing green of her irises. They were rimmed with red, and, Velma realized, struck square in the chest by something like vertigo, she looked as if she had been crying.

And then, suddenly, as if the ground had become liquid beneath her, Velma began to sink, watching as her friends first grew larger, towering over her as she fell, and then increasingly smaller, until all she could see around her was black. The sky itself shrunk to a tiny pinprick, and Velma was consumed by the sensation of falling, falling, _falling…_

* * *

Velma woke all at once, with a sharp gasp, heart thudding like a war drum against her ribcage. Hazel eyes frantically took in their surroundings, alien at first, and then increasingly familiar as her mind caught up with her heightened senses.

_Start with what you know._

Right. Right.

_Right._

It had been her birthday. There was the club, and then…

The yacht. Right.

The yacht, and the gang, and…and…

Velma jerked to her feet, then reeled as the sudden movement hit her head like a sledgehammer, knocking her back several paces until she managed to regain her footing. She looked on with something approaching abject horror as she realized where she had eventually fallen asleep.

Daphne moaned, clutching her head. Velma was slightly surprised at first, considering that Daphne never seemed to get hangovers the way the rest of them did. And then, slowly, she registered the pain in the back of her own head, markedly different from her hangover which, combined with her sudden movement, was threatening to turn her stomach into a war zone. Belatedly, she realized that, in jumping so suddenly from the chair and Daphne’s arms, she had of course damaged them both in the process.

“What…?”

Velma watched, momentarily transfixed, as the process she had just gone through repeated itself in Daphne’s eyes. The shock, the confusion, the pain, and then…

Velma’s heart twisted in her chest, so suddenly that her hand actually flew up, grasping at her sweater where her heart would be, as if that would ease the sting.

She hadn’t been prepared for the hurt. The emotion was so raw written across her pretty features that it made Velma wonder whether Daphne really had been holding back before.

“S-sorry!” Velma stammered, eyes wide with horror. “I forgot where I was, so I kind of…freaked out.”

As Daphne seemed to wake up, she, too, seemed to come to herself, and the expression became somewhat less brittle. However, it quickly morphed into something Velma wasn’t entirely sure was preferable to the hurt—annoyance, and, worse, determination.

“Velma…”

She’d known this was coming. Known it, known it. But still, she wasn’t prepared. She couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let Daphne ask, because if Daphne asked, Velma _couldn’t_ lie, not right to her face.

“I—”

“Gang!”

Both girls jumped, Velma more so than Daphne, as her nerves were already so frayed. Fred’s booming baritone didn’t do her hangover any favors, either. Still, Velma found herself grateful for Fred’s timely interruption. For her part, after the shock faded from her face, Daphne looked more annoyed than anything.

Good old Freddie, oblivious as ever, managed to completely miss the hints that he had just intruded on something, and continued, “I just got a call from the Police Department. They’re having a lot of trouble with a case, and they’re getting desperate. Since we’ve helped them out before, they decided to contact us—on the downlow, of course.”

“Of course,” Velma deadpanned. “I imagine it’s a sensitive case, if they’re asking us for help rather than sending out a full team?” She folded her arms below her chest thoughtfully, automatically sinking into ‘work mode’ at the prospect of something with which to occupy her mind, which seemed to have all too much free time these days.

Fred puffed out his chest. “Well, they know quality detective work when they see it!” he boasted.

A fond smile played at Velma’s lips. “Sure, Fred,” she replied, in a placating tone one might use with a stubborn child.

Frowning, Daphne finally broke her silence as Shaggy loped over toward the rest of him, along with Scooby-Doo. “What’s going on?”

“Ah.” For the first time, Freddie looked slightly bashful. “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t exactly know yet. We’re supposed to meet a couple of the officers in charge of the case at some diner—they don’t want anyone knowing they’ve brought us in, you see. They’ll fill us in when we get there.”

“Oh boy,” Shaggy said, rubbing his hands together. “Like, what better place to discuss a secret mission than a diner? And like, what good timing! I’m starving!”

“Ruh huh,” Scooby agreed, nodding emphatically.

Velma rolled her eyes good-naturedly as the two led the way, marching-band style, off the yacht. She was just starting after them when she felt a tug at her shoulder. Spinning around, she found Daphne fixing her with a meaningful look.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” Daphne said, in a tone that allowed no room for argument. Velma knew she was as good as her word—once that determined glint appeared in her eyes, there was no dissuading or derailing Daphne from pursuing whatever it was she meant to do. “Okay?”

Seeing it for the demand it was, Velma swallowed back the sudden rock in her throat and tried to ignore the way the tips of her fingers had gone numb. “Daph, there’s really nothing—”

“ _Later_ ,” Daphne repeated, staring Velma down with those impossibly clear green eyes, and Velma found herself nodding reluctantly. A tentative smile replaced the serious look on Daphne’s face, and her hand slipped down Velma’s arm to take a loose hold of her hand instead. “We better catch up before we lose the guys!”

Squeezing once, Daphne took off after the rest of the gang, half-dragging the still sleep-sluggish Velma along behind her.

The return of Daphne’s bright demeanor was almost enough to make Velma feel like everything was back to normal. Except.

Except the look in Daphne’s eyes told Velma she wasn’t going to drop it or pretend nothing was going on this time, and Velma couldn’t escape the feeling that they’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross. A checkpoint. A ‘save point’, as Shaggy would put it.

_A save point, huh…_

Velma just hoped she could reload if she somehow managed to mess everything up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review, let me know what you liked (or didn't)! Thank you to all my reviewers who left me such sweet, encouraging comments--I hope you continue to enjoy reading!


	4. Statement of the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA, the essential dry plot-building chapter.

Diners, Velma mused, not for the first time, were altogether too bright, too loud, too early. Each and every one of them, without fail.

That said, this particular diner, at which they were meant to meet the inspectors in charge of the case, was absolutely _deserted_. It was the first thing Velma noticed when they entered—for the first time upon entering a diner, she had not been swallowed by the cacophony of random chatter, yelled orders, clanging pots and pans, and/or old music played on a dying jukebox.

It was as much a concern as it was a relief.

Daphne, who always seemed to pick up on when something was wrong with Velma—that was the problem, after all—gently tapped Velma’s arm, guiding her into the inside of the booth while she herself slid into the aisle seat. The simple gesture caused a wave of crippling _love_ to course through Velma’s body from her heart to the very tips of her fingers and toes. Daphne always took the aisle seat, or the served as the buffer seat between Velma and complete strangers—it was as instinctive for her as all the little displays of affection. Velma disliked crowds, disliked being so close to strangers bustling past her or close enough to share an armrest, so Daphne protected her from it without so much as a second thought. She always had.

 _This_ was why Daphne was dangerous. This was why Velma dreaded ‘the talk’. Everything Daphne did, all the little gestures, the affection she showed without so much as a second thought…even logical, unemotional Velma was completely undone by it. How could she sit there and lie to Daphne if Daphne asked straight out?

How could she tell the _truth_?

Velma was interrupted from her thoughts by the very object of said thoughts leaning over and whispering in her ear. “Eat something,” Daphne ordered softly, sliding her own menu between them and tapping it with one beautifully manicured nail as Fred dived into conversation with one of the uniformed men they’d met and Shaggy pulled a chair up to the end of the booth for himself. Velma made a face—she hated eating right after she woke up—but Daphne fixed her with a stern look. “You barely ate anything last night, and I know you haven’t eaten yet this morning. And with all that alcohol last night…”

Velma hadn’t actually had _that much_ to drink, but it did feel like she’d had enough to knock out a horse. She supposed, thinking back on the deadly purple concoction, in this case, it was quality over quantity. Nauseous at the prospect of eating but not wanting to test Daphne’s resolve, particularly after their short exchange just a half hour ago, Velma agreed to order the least nauseating thing on the menu—cheesy scrambled eggs and toast. Trusting Daphne to order for her (and perfectly fine if she didn’t), Velma turned her attention to Fred and the pair of men who’d been waiting for them with badges at the ready.

They’d introduced themselves as Officer Michael Berns and Detective Isaac Hawthorne, and they certainly looked the part. Berns, of course, wore the standard police uniform that helped to identify him as an officer of the law, while Hawthorne seemed to be copied directly from a noire detective novel in his crisp yet slightly rumpled blazer and loose tie. The men looked like they’d had maybe three hours sleep in the past week between the pair of them. Velma’s curiosity was piqued, and she leaned forward to take part in the discussion.

“…want to keep it out of the public eye as much as possible,” Hawthorne was saying, rubbing a hand roughly over his chin, where a thick layer of stubble threatened to cross into beard territory. “We don’t want to incite any unnecessary panic, and the circumstances are…delicate, to say the least.”

Fred was nodding along, as if ‘delicate’ was his middle name. Before he opened his mouth and inevitably brought up something involving the word ‘trap’, Velma took her cue and intervened.

“I would imagine so, if you’ve come to us,” she replied. “How exactly is the situation delicate, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Berns, whom Velma guessed to be the younger of the two, although the lines beneath his eyes made it anyone’s guess, was the one to reply to Velma’s question. “Well,” he said, letting the word roll around on his tongue, “the main thing that makes it so touchy is the fact that it involves certain high-profile persons here in town.”

“Not exactly low-profile elsewhere, either,” Hawthorne added gruffly. “Frankly, the whole thing’s a shitshow.”

Velma raised her eyebrows at the strong language. Whatever the case involved, it must be fairly serious for them to abandon their professionalism like this. Then again, they did look extremely exhausted.

“It’s about the Mayor’s niece,” the younger investigator said, wasting no time in digging into his food as it arrived. “Usually that would be a big enough scene on its own, but she’s also pretty famous in her own right. She’s one of those…what do you call them? YouTube personalities? Anna Grace Thomas. Goes by something else on her ‘channel’, but I don’t remember what it is.”

Velma frowned slightly—she could swear she’d heard the name before, but…

Beside her, she felt more than saw Daphne straighten, hands slapping the table. “You mean Annie Bells??” she asked, her voice rising an octave. “That’s her real name—Anna Grace Thomas. She’s mainly a fashion blogger, but she’s also dabbled in music—she just released a collab with Mauve last month!” Daphne was practically bouncing in her seat now, and Velma had to suppress an amused smile; Daphne was very into social media and had a fair amount of YouTubers and other various influencers whose work she followed religiously. Of course she’d know about this girl. A small part of Velma twitched with envy watching Daphne fangirl over the girl she assumed was to be their client, but the one good thing about having a hopeless crush on your straight best friend was that you didn’t have a chance anyway, so there wasn’t much logic in being jealous.

And Velma Dinkley was nothing if not logical.

“I _love_ her work!!” Daphne finished with a squeal. She was already pulling out her phone, tapping to Annie Bells’ Instagram page. After a moment, she handed the phone to Velma, who was met with the charismatically smiling face of a girl who had to be around their age, with bright blue eyes and cotton-candy pink hair. Overall, she reminded Velma of a k-pop idol (Velma’s _other_ big secret, although her tastes tended to skew more Mamamoo and less early-era Twice)—or she would, if it weren’t for the multiple piercings and visible tattoos. This Annie Bells girl made for an interesting collage of current trends, if nothing else. “Isn’t her style _amazing_?” Daphne prodded.

Velma, being uninterested in social media and current trends as she was, could only smile and nod.

“Well,” Hawthorne said, clearly unimpressed by Daphne’s extensive knowledge of social media influencers, “it’s certainly caught _someone’s_ attention. Thomas is scheduled to perform at a big social event here in town next month—a favor to the major, I guess. Anyway, as soon as word got out, we started receiving these weird emails, threatening everything from generalized chaos to casualties if we allowed her to perform as scheduled.”

“Are they from the same person?” Velma asked, her mind immediately shifting into ‘mystery mode’.

“Well, they’re all from different anonymous email addresses,” Hawthorne replied, a trace of condescension in his tone. “People can use fake email addresses for this stuff, you know. To make them untraceable.”

Velma cocked an eyebrow. “Obviously they’re using dummy emails,” she replied dryly, “Otherwise I imagine the Police Department would have had no trouble tracking the perpetrator down, and thus no need of _us_.” A muscle worked in the detective’s jaw, but he didn’t reply. “I was referring to somewhat subtler clues…style of writing, linguistic ticks, for example. The kinds of patterns that show up unconsciously in people’s writing. Obviously there’s no way to check for anything like matching handwriting, but there are ways to ‘fingerprint’ people digitally as well.”

By this point, Hawthorne looked slightly purple, while Berns appeared to be burying his face in his omelet in an attempt to keep a straight face. Velma felt a hand squeeze her thigh in encouragement and forced herself not to think about the owner of said hand. The case was the important thing right now. If she had to put a cocky detective in his place once in a while, well, that was just part of the job. She was not about to let some hard-boiled, dime store novel detective insult the one thing of hers in which she had always had the utmost confidence—her brain.

“To answer your question,” Berns said, when it became clear his sulky companion was not going to do so, “we have reason to suspect a single person or group, based on the content and format of the messages, but we have no idea who that entity may be. And with the event less than a month away…” He trailed off, letting the circumstances speak for themselves.

Freddy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since Velma joined the conversation, brows furrowed in what Velma recognized as being his ‘thinking face’, finally spoke. “Is there any reason this is being treated as different from any other crazy fan mail?” he asked. “Why have the police decided this person—or group—pose enough of a threat to follow up on?”

“Ah, well,” Berns replied, fishing around in his pocket and pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper, “that would be _this_.” He handed the paper to Freddy, who took it and scanned it, brows furrowing deeper as he mouthed along with whatever was written there.

As he read it, Velma inspected the paper from where she sat across the table. It looked like some sort of email, and she entertained herself for a moment marveling over the fact that anyone outside of video game villains would print out an email. But her musings were cut abruptly short by the jarring sound of Fred’s voice cracking, his words echoing around the empty diner.

“A _bombing_?!”

Velma felt her eyes widen.

 _A bombing_?

This was so far outside the usual realm of ‘corporate blowhard in a monster mask’ that for a moment, even she found her mind frustratingly blank. Beneath the table, she felt a hand grip her thigh, and was too blindsided to remind herself to flinch away when she realized the only possible owner of said hand could be Daphne.

Across the table, Hawthorne gave a grave nod. “Now you realize the sensitivity of the situation,” he said. “And why we couldn’t send in a team of our own. The risk, at this point, would be too great. If the culprit caught wind of any kind of police mobilization, the safety of the entire town would be at stake.”

“We know this is far more serious than your usual cases,” Berns added, leaning forward, an apologetic look scrawled across his youthful features. As the shock began to subside, Velma wondered if the two men had rehearsed the whole ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine, or if it was just natural. She imagined they made an effective pair on the occasion.

Unfortunately, her return to her senses also resulted in a return to her usual anxieties—namely, those that revolved around allowing herself to get too close to Daphne. Her leg tensed beneath Daphne’s hand, and the grip loosened momentarily only to tighten almost determinedly a second later, as if Daphne had forgotten her hand was there and made to release, then made a conscious decision to hold on. Feeling slightly braver than usual, Velma snuck a glance at her best friend out of the corner of her eye, but Daphne’s expression was, for once, startlingly blank—a clue which lent a certain validity to Velma’s theory. Daphne’s face was never blank without her making a conscious effort to make it so.

Forcing herself to return her attention to the arguably more pressing matter at hand, Velma turned her full gaze on the men across the table.

“I understand the severity of the situation,” she began, slowly. “But…in all honesty, I have to wonder what exactly you expect us to do? As you said, this is way outside of our usual cases—”

“Don’t be like that, Velma!” Fred cut in passionately. “This girl, Annie Bells, needs our help! And who better for the job?”

A very prominent, very snarky part of Velma’s brain was set to volley back with something akin to, _I don’t know, maybe the_ police _?_ But, given present company, she managed to suppress the powerful urge to voice this particular thought.

Fred seemed to take her silence as agreement or, at the very least, acquiescence. He turned back to Hawthorne, who, Velma could already tell, he had begun to look at with something like idolization. Forget YouTube sensations and Instagram influencers—Freddy fanboyed over detectives, inventors, law enforcement and the like as though they were the current teen pop sensation. He was so much like the boy Velma had met all those years ago when he got like this—young, starry eyed, obsessed with justice and hungry for mystery. The look in his eyes strongly implied he was already planning out some elaborate trap as they spoke.

“You can count on us, Detective. Officer.”

And so that was that.

* * *

The very next day, the gang was piled into the Mystery Machine, trundling up the steep hill on which the Mayor’s house resided. Anna, they had been informed, would be staying with her uncle for the time leading up to the event. Velma frowned slightly.

“Am I the only one who feels like it might not be the brightest idea for Anna to stay on the Mayor’s property with all of this going on?” she asked, barely even wincing as the Mystery Machine powered over a particularly obstructive bump in the road. “Everyone knows where the Mayor lives, and being that it’s the Mayor’s property, it’s already a bit of a bullseye for any potential terrorist attacks. Isn’t it a bit like painting a giant bullseye on her back, considering the situation?”

“Maybe they thought she’d be safer there, you know, with the Mayor’s security and everything.” From the driver’s seat, Freddy shrugged. “Either way, it doesn’t matter—we’ll have this bad guy caught before they get anywhere near Anna.”

Velma raised an eyebrow. “Not that I don’t admire your confidence, Fred,” she began, “but—”

“We’re here!” Daphne veritably squealed, directly into Velma’s ear.

Velma _did_ wince slightly at this—there were times she cursed being the smallest (in stature, at least--she'd kill for Daphne's slender figure) of the group. For one thing, it meant a perpetual relegation to the middle seat. Still, she couldn’t be too annoyed, with Daphne beaming in the seat beside her, grasping at Velma’s hand like they were teenagers again.

For the most part, the excitement of meeting the occasional world-famous celebrity wore off as time went on. Still, they all had their starstruck moments—Daphne had had a field day teasing Velma about Thorne back when, greatly encouraged by Velma’s luminescent blush whenever her admiration of the vocalist was brought up. Interestingly, she hadn’t cared for Ben Ravencroft—something that would have been understandable given later events, except for the fact that Daphne had never seemed particularly fond of the author to begin with. Velma had eventually chalked it up to interest—while Daphne was far from stupid, books had never been able to hold her interest for long. By comparison, a glamorous, personable celebrity like Thorne would have been much more up her alley.

For once, Velma didn’t pull away from Daphne’s grip. She told herself it was to attempt to dissuade whatever suspicions Daphne had regarding her behavior, but the telling heat in her freckled cheeks was making it increasingly hard to convince herself. Velma comforted herself by reminding her brain that Daphne was far too preoccupied in her fangirling to notice Velma’s reaction. This, while not an entirely pleasant thought for obvious reasons, was sufficient to counter her paranoia over her feelings being discovered, at least for the time being.

In short order, the Mystery Machine rumbled to a stop outside the quintessential cliché iron gates, Freddy reaching out his window to press the call button. Seconds later, after some unintelligible static coming from the call box that seemed to make sense to Freddy, at least, they were passing through, into the bright, meticulously kept property that made up the exterior of the Mayor’s manor.

At least, Velma thought, as fine gravel crunched beneath the tires of the ancient van, this would give her mind something else to do besides pine over her beautiful, unattainable straight best friend like the heroine of a bad 90s music video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t like OCs at the best of times. But when it comes to Scooby-Doo, it’s kind of difficult to avoid, given the Villain-of-the-Week format. Don’t worry though—nothing annoys me more than a Mary-Sue OC taking over the story and ruining everything. ‘Annie Bells’ is just meant to function as another one-off character, not any kind of ‘new member’ or any BS like that. It was just easier to create a new character than adjust an existing one to fit the part.
> 
> Yes, the name is super cheesy—I was thinking along the lines of other Scooby-Doo ‘stars’, haha. Also of something that sounded like something a YouTuber might go by :P But I'm not a YouTuber (all my stat points went to writing and anxiety), so. 
> 
> Side Note: I was actually considering using Thorn from the Hex Girls instead, just for the sake of using her in this fic (because who didn’t have a massive gay crush on Thorn?) xD Buuut for the sake of the story and focusing on the plot, this worked better.


End file.
